


Compromising Positions

by agdhani



Category: Black Sails
Genre: M/M, Thursday Tropes & February BINGO
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-11
Updated: 2015-02-11
Packaged: 2018-03-11 22:40:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3335450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agdhani/pseuds/agdhani
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Captains Flint and Vane find themselves pitched into battle together with unexpected results.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Compromising Positions

**Author's Note:**

> Though unintentional, I managed to mix the latest Trope challenge with February's bingo...this was the result.

It was an odd set of circumstances that had placed Vane upon Flint’s ship. An argument with Eleanor, which he had technically won despite the loss of a bet, had resulted in his bruised ego nonetheless and a determination to prove that he and Flint could work together for the sake of a prize. Without a ship of his own at the moment, Vane had agreed to be here, on Flint’s ship, so long as the man’s crew left him alone. That proved to be a condition he did not need to ask for, since most men, even the wildest and toughest, were prone to give Charles Vane a wide berth. If they chose, however, they could band together, overpower him, and so Flint had agreed to sharing the Captain’s quarters just his once, for the duration of the run. Since there was only one bunk, and since neither was willing to accept sleeping upon the floor, it would have meant sharing. Avoiding that awkwardness had resulted in splitting the captaining duties so that one commanded as the other slept, an arrangement that has worked out well enough for their first three days upon choppy seas. Thankfully, Vane could sleep through anything.

But behind the desk, on the stool he had brought in so that the two men could both be seated there when the need arose, Flint found that, even when asleep, Vane was pretty damned annoying. He was not snoring, was not thrashing or muttering in his sleep…it was just his being there, bare chested, one arm hanging over the side of the bunk, the other raised and covering his eyes as a shield from the sun through the window, that was distraction enough. Staying focused on charts and maps was not an easy thing when he found his gaze continually drawn across the room.

“Ship!” came the bellows from above deck. Vane was up of the bunk with such abrupt speed, that Flint, in his own haste tumbled from the stool. One arm shot out to catch himself, knocking the decanter of wine onto the floor shattering on impact so that, when Flint landed, it was upon the broken glass, embedding shards in his hand and in his backside. He swore as he got to his feet, yanking the bits from his hand while vane drew on his shirt and grabbed up his blade, but he could not see ones on his ass and growled as he fumbled for them.

Vane crossed the room in long strides, stopping behind him with a smirk. “Allow me,” he said before unceremoniously putting one hand upon Flint’s back, hand splayed, to bend him forward over the desk, while plucking three large slivers of glass from where they were lodged. Flint did not notice their removal; his attention was tangled around the hand upon his back and the position he found himself in. And when the door opened, one of the crewmen poking his head in to say, “Ship, Captain…” he and Flint stared at one another for a long, awkward moment.

Jerking upright, straightening his coat, Flint barked, “I’m coming,” more gruffly than intended, flustered by the compromising position he had been and the man’s perception of it, knowing how long it would take for word to spread throughout the crew. It annoyed him that Vane stood there, his expression largely calm with a faint trace of amusement. It annoyed him more that having been in that position had troubled him less then he believed it should have.

As he regained his composure, Vane went topside without him, keeping his face unreadable as he watched the tiny shape on the distant horizon. Hands at his side, his body tightening in preparation for battle, he heard Flint emerge from the hold and did not react as the man passed him, took the scope from one of his crew to study the approaching vessel. The deck was wet and slippery from the constant spray of turbulent waves and the air was crisp and clean. Ideal fighting weather, he mused, staring back and forth from their hoped for target to the back of Flint’s head, his neck, and his tense shoulders.

“Is it the Celeste?” someone asked. The men were itching for a fight. So was Vane. The annoyance of having to be here, the readiness to be done with it and a totally different sort of unexpected frustration longed for an outlet. A good bloody battle ought to do nicely…sine he was not going to see any other action until the returned to Nassau.

Eleanor better be satisfied with this.

A word from Flint sent men scurrying to the stations, bringing their vessel about so that they were directly in line with the oncoming ship. Many tense minutes would pass, nearly an hour or more perhaps depending on the wind, for them to come near enough to hoist the black, pull up alongside the Celeste, and claim her go as their prize. Said to be sailing with a cargo of tea, tobacco, opium and gold, it would be a wealthy enough prize to gain them coin to live off of for a good while. That coin, and keeping his word, were the only interests in this venture Vane had.  
Or they had been the only interests. Unexpectedly, that had changed.

Time ticked past, the bounding of the ship over the waves closing the distance swiftly, bringing them in line for the attack. The black was raised, creating chaos on the Celeste, but it gave them scant time to prepare themselves before the two vessels were side by side, lashed together, with Flint’s crew swarming over the sides. Pistol shots rang out, but there was no time for either side to reload, resulting in the clash of swords, knives, and bodies in bloodier combat. Vane was there with them, one of the host slipping and sliding across sea and blood soaked wood, hacking through one sailor after another as the other crew attempted to protect the contents of their hold. He was pleased…proud…to see Flint in the thick of things as well. He could feel Flint watching him fight, and knew from the other captain’s actions, that he was aware of being watched as well. A product of their competitive natures, perhaps, and the desire not to allow the other captain to outdo them.

It might have been something more.

Behind Vane, a uniformed sailor swung a belaying pin at the head of one of Flint’s crewmen. Not seeing it, Vane did not know it was coming, and when the crewman ducked the blow, it landed instead across Vane’s head, sending him reeling just as a large wave pitched the locked ships to the side. He slid across the damp deck, hit the rail, and though he tried to grasp it, to hold on, he tumbled over it into the sea.

“Vane!”

He couldn’t say why he did it. The battle was winding down, the crew had the matter in hand and were rounding up those enemy sailors who had surrendered or had been subdued. His presence, his leadership, were still needed, but saving Vane from the sea, at that moment, seemed far more important. The man was a strong swimmer, Flint knew this, but after that blow to the head, it did not seem likely he would survive without assistance. Flint ran to the side, dove and entered the water not far from where Vane had fallen. When he surfaced, he did not immediately see the other man, only the bodies, alive and dead, of a handful of others who had fallen over as well, or had thought to escape the carnage by braving the ocean instead.

“Vane!”

His ears were ringing, his skull screaming as if it had been split in two and the blood in the water around his eyes reinforced the notion that his brain had exploded from within as soon as his body had slammed into the warm Atlantic water. He sank, and though he tried to swim back to the surface, his limbs refused to respond to the commands he gave. His lungs begged for oxygen, for life, but those things were being ripped away from him the further he was swallowed by the sea. Internally swearing, feeling this to be an undignified death although one every pirate risked, he squeezed his eyes shut as his chest began to constrict, he was yanked backwards by the force of the current, and his vision blurred from crimson to black…

…and then to light. Bright white light, warm, comforting, accompanied by pricks of pain and a gentle tugging against his scalp. He heard a groan but was uncertain if it was his own or from somewhere outside of himself. It felt as if his eyes opened, but for several moments he saw nothing but a darkness that obliterated the light he had seen with his eyes closed. Little by little the inkiness began to gray, then gave way to light and shapes, smells and voices, and the realization that, after his near-death experience, he had managed to beat mortality once again.

Another prick of pain, more noticeable now that he was conscious, made him growl and lash out with one arm without thinking, swatting away the arms of the man who loomed over him.

“Enough,” he snapped, intending the word to sound harsher than his salt-water ravaged voice allowed.

“I’m done, I’m done,” said the fellow who had been stitching up the gash in his head. Now he backed away and began picking up the instruments he had been using in order to hurry off and tend to the other wounded.

Vane fingered the tender area and was relieved to find that his hair had been left intact. He began to sit, but his dizzying attempt was met with the surgeon’s protest and the firm hands of another man Vane had not even realized was there.

“Easy…lay back. You’re not going anywhere…not yet at least. You need a good night’s sleep…”

Growling at Flint for his interference, but collapsing back onto the bunk because his equilibrium had plans other than allowing him to stand, Vane started, “There are things to do…”  
“The cargo’s been transferred…the Celeste set adrift. The men are tending to the injured and dead now. We’ll put them to rest in the morning, so right now, there’s nothing you need to do but rest and regain your strength. I didn't save your carcass from drowning for nothing.” Vane’s scowl made him laugh; behind him, the surgeon had now left the room. “Thought I’d lost you out there.”

Head cocked, one brow raised, Vane stared. When Flint realized what pronoun he had used, and that his hands were still on Vane’s shoulders as if holding him to the cot though the other captain was making no effort to rise now, he backed away, cleared his throat, and took off his coat to hang it on a hook at the side of the door. It put distance between them and, he hoped, removed some of the discomfort he felt. “ Eleanor would have my ship if I told her I’d lost one of her best captains.”

“She still might…” The woman, capricious as she could be, might not need Vane’s death as an excuse to be rid someone…although he suspected she would be more inclined to allow her top earner to live. Hell, he thought with contempt, she might have even rewarded Flint if he had removed the thorn that was Charles Vane from her side.

Flint chuckled and filled a glass with brandy, which he in turn offered to Vane. Vane nodded his thanks before emptying the sweet fluid into his parched throat. “Not bad.” He gave the glass back to Flint.

“Courtesy of the Celeste…spoils of war.” When his own glass was empty and the bottle resealed, he blew out the lamp and returned to sit on the edge of the bunk.

“What are you doing?” Vane hissed.

“I feel like death…I’m not going to sleep on the floor. And you look like it, so I’m not kicking you out of the bunk to sleep. We’re both adults…grown men…no reason we can’t share…” There were only two reasons Flint could think of to avoid what he suggest, the first being the narrowness of the space which would not allow for the most comfortable of sleeps. The other, related to the first, was the knowledge of how close he would have to be, body to body, to share a bed with Charles Vane. Arguing impulses could not decide if that was a very good thing, or a very bad thing, but he ignored both small voices and stretched out beside Vane, making sure to face away from him. Vane grunted as he shifted but he did not protest the arrangement

Listening to Vane’s deep breathing, feeling his pulse through the contact of their bodies, Flint swallowed his groan, squeezed his eyes shut, and begged for sleep, suspecting that, in the morning, he was going to wake up in another, more compromising position…and knowing he wasn’t going to mind when it happened.


End file.
